Suspect
by mouse8
Summary: Neal is arrested for murder. Chapter 7 Up. Story completed.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: White Collar is the property of Jeff Eastin and USA television, and is merely being borrowed here for recreational, non-profit purposes. No copyright infringement is intended.

Rating: T

Summary: Neal is arrested for murder.

Dedication: This is for Susan, thanks always for the support, and Judith, this is going to be fun!

Author's notes: I love this show and I'm really excited to post my first story. This chapter is a little on the short side, but they get longer! The story is completely written, but not betaed. I will post every few days as fast as I or my beta can insert all the missing commas.

P.S. Not a death story.

Suspect Chapter 1

The noise, muted as it was by distance and well-constructed walls, woke him abruptly from a deep sleep, and he bolted upright in bed. At another time, it would have had him leaping for a well-planned exit, but now, after slipping a pair of pants over the silk pajama bottoms that constituted his sole sleep wear, Neal stood irresolute as the sound grew closer. He gently thumbed the buttons on his cell phone, but his initial instinct, to call Peter, seemed redundant under the circumstances.

As the shouting and thudding feet neared his room, he shifted his feet nervously. His flight or fight response to the adrenaline flooding his system always leaned heavily toward the 'get the hell out of Dodge' end of the spectrum, and not having a guilty conscience for once wasn't making it any easier to wait patiently. In fact, it was only the chafing weight around his ankle, even if it was more metaphorical than physical, that anchored him in place.

Bracing himself, he raised his hands in the air and pasted a wide, welcoming grin on his face. He took an involuntary step back as the door splintered open and armed men boiled through the gap, shouting often contradictory commands.

"F.B.I.!"

"Keep your hands where we can see 'em!"

"Don't move!"

"Up against the wall!"

The sheer magnitude of firepower directed solely at him was frankly terrifying. His arrests by Peter had been low-key, almost decorous, the final subtle move to check mate with the consequent tipping of the king in acknowledgment. There were no guns in sight. This, however, was clearly not a game. There was a deadly seriousness conveyed in every expression of the unnecessarily large number of men in the operation, and it baffled as well as scared him.

"Hey!" he protested, as he was slammed against the wall and was subjected to a rough and intrusive frisking. He chanced a glance over his shoulder, but his face was pushed back, cheekbone scraping painfully against the wall.

He tried to lighten the atmosphere while fishing for some information. "I think you guys have your memos crossed. We're all playing for the same team now."

There was no direct response to this, but then he was yanked off the wall and pulled around until he was face to face with the man obviously in charge. An identification card, not too different from the one he himself possessed, was dangled briefly in front of his eyes, just long enough to catch the name, Seaton. The agent looked like the quintessential FBI hardnose, complete with trench coat and square jaw. Neal could vaguely remember seeing him at headquarters before, but he couldn't recall which department.

"Put a shirt on, Mr. Caffrey, you're coming with us."

Neal's legal knowledge had blossomed under Peter's tutelage, and he arched an eyebrow. "Am I under arrest? What are the charges?"

"Murder."

"What?" For a moment, Neal could only stare at him, his mind whirling in blind panic. This had to be the latest machination of Fowler's. He was peripherally aware of agents moving around the room, methodically sorting through June's furniture and his meager belongings. The jingle of handcuffs and a purposeful grip on his wrist broke through his temporary trance.

"Wait! Just wait a minute. Just let me make a phone call. I can clear this up."

Seaton's cold stare showed him to be unimpressed. "You'll get your phone call."

"No, that's not what I...look." He pulled up his pants leg to reveal the tracker. "I've been here all night. This can prove it."

The agent shook his head slightly as if disgusted, then intoned formally. "Neal Caffrey, you are under arrest for the murder of Peter Burke."

"Peter?" The words bludgeoned Neal with the force of a two by four and left him with about as much comprehension. Denial was the only refuge from that shock. "Peter's...Peter's not...I just talked with him a few hours ago. He's home right now. I have to call him."

He jerked an arm free from the restraining hands behind him, needing to move, needing to verify for himself that they were wrong. It just couldn't be true. He felt as if a tunnel were expanding out in front of him, severing him from reality. Restraint was suddenly intolerable, a claustrophobia worse than any suffered in prison cramping every muscle, generating a burning, twitchy scrabbling under his skin while an overwhelming ache left him gasping for breath. As he was grabbed once again from behind, he lashed out automatically with an elbow.

"Get off me!" This temporary freedom came at a price as a second later a fist thudded against his ribs, doubling him over. He fought back wildly, purely on instinct, his heart pounding so loud that he couldn't hear beyond its thunderous roar. His efforts were clumsy, and he was dimly aware of their utter futility, but the pain of retaliation helped counter the sensation of loss inside that he couldn't even understand himself.

Soon he was on the floor, several agents taking the opportunity to apply a little revenge with a boot for the loss of one of their own. Black flecks swirled before Neal's eyes before he fell gratefully into the dark abyss around him.


	2. Chapter 2

A.N. Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to leave a review. Your words were so encouraging.

Thank you also to Susan for the beta. Any mistakes left are mine because I insist on a highly original mixture of British and American spelling.

Chapter 2

Reese Hughes entered the observation room in the Violent Crime unit with a deep scowl on his face, which only intensified as he caught sight of his suspect on the monitor. He dropped the file he was carrying with a loud slam on the table.

"What the hell happened to him, Bill? I thought your men would be more professional than that."

The man handcuffed to the chair was barely recognisable as Neal Caffrey. His usual dapper, self-assured bearing was entirely absent as he sat hunched and motionless; impeccably styled hair was now unkempt, with a large area plastered to his head by what looked like blood. His normally animated features were devoid of expression, their marble vacancy marred only by the livid bruising which heated his left cheekbone, scraping up the temple and disappearing into the hairline.

Seaton waved a dismissive hand before sliding the file towards himself. "He resisted arrest. I have a room full of witnesses."

"Neal Caffrey doesn't resist arrest," Hughes stated bluntly.

Seaton scoffed. "Next you're going to tell me he doesn't hurt people either. Yet, you're down an agent. Either this leopard is going for an entirely new fashion look, or you never really knew him that well in the first place. When we arrested him, he didn't just resist, he went berserk. It took four agents to take him down."

Hughes glanced once more at the screen. Neal still hadn't moved, his dead stare directed at the table. "I want to talk to him."

"It's not your case, not your department," the other man pointed out.

"No, but it's my consultant, my agent, and my mess." Hughes knew he could go over Seaton's head, appeal to his fellow department head, but he was hoping to keep this unofficial. "Has he given a statement yet?"

"He hasn't said a word since we arrested him. He hasn't even lawyered up."

More uncharacteristic Caffrey behaviour. Neal was normally a fountain of words, the persiflage of flirting and willful misdirection raining down indiscriminately with the esoterica of art and finance. The only person who had been able or willing to keep up with that lightning, mercurial mind was Peter Burke - his own keen intelligence an unlikely match for the younger conman. It was an improbable partnership, yet it had proved remarkably effective in the months since Neal's release from prison. In fact, in some strange gestalt effect, the whole department had benefited.

Hughes was unsure how he felt right now. Peter was not only his lead agent, he was also his friend. If Neal had betrayed and killed him, the Captain would single-handedly ensure that capital punishment was restored in the state just so he could pull the switch himself. However, he couldn't bring himself to believe that that was the case. He had no intention of sharing his reservations with Seaton, though.

"You know, a good lawyer will probably get him off. You've got no real physical evidence to connect him to the murder - no blood stains on his clothes, no gun powder residue, and no weapon. Your case would be stronger if you got a confession, and he's more likely to talk to me."

Clearly recognising the merit of the argument, Seaton waved a magnanimous hand. "Have at it," he invited.

Neal showed no reaction as Hughes entered the room closing the door gently behind him, so the Chief took the opportunity to study him. The young conman looked even worse in person than he had on the monitor, the shocking contrast between the ashen gray of his skin and the bright red and purple mottling more obvious.

"Caffrey?"

Neal turned in response to his name, and, hardened veteran though he was, Hughes' breath caught in his throat at the haunting anguish in those intense blue eyes. For an instant, there was no spark of recognition, then Neal attempted to surge to his feet, but the chain aborted his movement halfway, and he subsided with a grimace of pain.

"Is it true? Peter. Is it true?"

He looked so damned young and lost, so different from the brash conman Hughes was used to that the Chief found himself convinced of his innocence. No one was that good an actor. But, remembering their audience, he forced himself to ignore the appeal in those eyes. He sat down opposite Neal with some deliberation and opened the file. He could feel Caffrey tracking every movement. Then, he started spreading the crime scene photos on the table between them. He didn't have to explain where they were taken, he knew how much time Neal had spent in the Burkes' house, how easily he'd integrated into the warmth of that family.

"Oh, God." Neal turned impossibly paler and reached an unsteady hand towards a particularly gruesome picture of bloodsplatter on the couch; his hand hovered uncertainly before retracting to shield his face in an awkward gesture of distress.

Suddenly, he bolted upright. "Elizabeth?" He answered his own question a beat later. "No, she's with her sister. Does she know?" Again, the desperate plea tempted Hughes to spill his guts, to offer some form of comfort, but he restricted his answer to a simple affirmative.

"Yes. I spoke to her on the phone, and she's coming home." He omitted the fact that, when he'd told Elizabeth who had been arrested for the crime, she had actually cursed at him, telling him to do his job properly and find the real culprit.

For a moment there was silence as both of them contemplated the effect of this news on Elizabeth, then Neal's bloodshot gaze was drawn reluctantly but irresistibly back to the pictures. The extent of overturned furniture and broken ornaments suggested Peter had fought back hard. But one anomaly struck Neal and, swallowing hard, he asked, "Is this where they found...him?"

The question was pained but natural, containing no hint of artifice, and it answered the final doubts in Hughes' mind even as he avoided a straight answer. "Where were you last night?"

It was clearly a struggle for Neal to cast his mind back. "Elizabeth had left town." His voice had taken on a flat, neutral tone, very precise and controlled, that somehow made his grief more distressing. "So Peter and I went out to dinner. Afterwards, we just...walked around for a bit. He invited me back to his place, you know, to watch some game or other - something from the West Coast - I can't remember. I declined, I said something about preferring the company of a good book." For the first time, his composure visibly cracked. "I should have gone with him. If I'd just gone back with him..."

Once again, Hughes wanted to reassure him, but merely continued with his questioning. "What time did you leave him?"

"I don't know. Maybe 9:30, 9:45, I wasn't keeping track."

"Then what did you do?" Hughes persisted.

"I went home. I stayed in the rest of the night until this morning when..."

Hughes interrupted. "That's not what your tracker shows." He watched the reaction to that bombshell intently. Neal's lips parted in surprise, his eyes widening as comprehension began to trickle in. It quickly became a crushing torrent of realisation. Hughes could see a multitude of consequences examined from all angles, theories cracked open and probed, plans of action formulated, shuffled, and reevaluated.

Then Neal leant forward, a new light of urgency in his compelling eyes. "Tell me," he said simply, but it was more of an order than a request.

"The tracking data shows you at Peter's house around 1:30 am. After fifteen minutes, you left in a vehicle, drove to the docks, then, presumably by boat, ventured out onto the Hudson River. You then returned home." Hughes stated the facts succinctly, sensing that they were straying into territory that would get the conversation summarily terminated.

"Ah," Neal nodded bitterly. "Not a very bright criminal am I." He thumped a fist on the table. "There's no body." He looked up for confirmation. "It's a classic misdirect. They've got you going in completely wrong directions. You're expending your manpower on convicting me, and I'll bet you're dragging the river right now for a body." Hughes gave a nod of confirmation for the second time. "But don't you see, I didn't do it. The tracking data was faked, which means not only are you looking into the wrong reasons for Peter's disappearance, but there's a good chance he isn't dead." His eyes were now blazing with hope. "If you don't have a body, there's a chance that Peter is alive. We have to look for him."

Ideas were now spilling out at breakneck speed. "The trail to the Hudson is completely electronic. I don't suppose anyone even went near there. So where is he? They didn't just leave him in the house. Maybe there's a reason beyond framing me. They could have done that just as well by leaving the body there."

Hughes must have looked doubtful, because Neal burst out. "I'd never hurt Peter. Come on - he's my friend." There was no innocent look, no open, artless smile, just wild desperation.

The door opened with a bang, and Seaton strode in looking displeased. "This interview is over. If you want to speak to my suspect again, you need to go through channels."

Neal ignored him. "Just look into it," he insisted. "Who would want Peter out of the way? Please!"

As Hughes started to leave the room, Neal rose as far as the restraints would allow him. "Hughes, just tell me..." he started, but Seaton stopped him by slamming him back into the chair.

At Neal's cry of pain, Hughes stopped. His consultant was hunched over, his one free arm wrapped around his ribs, trying to mitigate the effect of the violent movement. Harsh coughs ripped through him. Blood suddenly sprayed from his mouth, splattering on the table in front of him, adding to the stains already there.

"Jesus Christ!" Hughes hurried back. Putting a steadying hand on the young man's shoulder, he turned angrily to Seaton. "Have you taken him to a hospital to be checked out?"

The violent crimes agent shook his head. "He's fine," he insisted defensively.

The Chief eased back Neal's shirt revealing the angry bruises that were beginning to bloom in violent hues across his ribs. "The hell he is. You get him to the hospital right now or I'll be the one filing brutality charges against you."

He'd done his best for Caffrey, but as he left, Hughes couldn't help feeling that he'd let Peter Burke down by not doing more for the young man who so inexplicably had become the agent's best friend.

When Jones came in four hours later to give him the news that Neal Caffrey had escaped from custody while in the hospital, Hughes merely gave him a nod of acknowledgment and a list of people he wanted interviewed. Once alone, however, he walked slowly over to the window and spent several minutes watching the sea of humanity swarm below. He had forgotten to warn Seaton that that might happen. What a shame.


	3. Chapter 3

Suspect Chapter 3

Despite long, draining days pouring over old files and interviewing suspects, the next 48 hours produced no clues as to Peter's whereabouts. He had disappeared as thoroughly, with as little trace, as if he had indeed been washed out to sea by the flowing waters of the Hudson. In his darkest moments of frustration, Hughes couldn't help but wonder if he'd fallen for a con in presuming differently, but ultimately he couldn't bring himself to believe that. Neal's grief had been too real, too visceral.

He rubbed his forehead viciously with the heel of his hand, hoping to erase the headache that had taken up residence there. When the phone rang, he picked it up with a curt, "Hughes."

For a second, there was silence at the other end, then a voice he immediately recognised spoke firmly. "This is Caffrey. I want to turn myself in."

Hughes hadn't been expecting that. "Okay," he said cautiously. "Where are you?"

He was anticipating prevarication, but the reply was immediate. "I'm at the internet cafe on Brant. Do you know it?"

"Yes."

"I'm not armed, and I'm not going to run. Just...please...come yourself. I'm not asking you to come alone. Just, please come. Ten minutes, I need ten minutes of your time."

"You have something?" Hughes immediately picked up on the implications of that request.

"Yes, I know who took him, I know why, and I think I know where they took him. I'd go in by myself, but if he's hurt there's no way I can get him out safely."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes." Hughes hesitated, then continued. "Neal, you know I have to arrest you. They'll put you straight back in prison, and I can't prevent that. I can't protect you." He didn't know why he was offering the warning, whether he was testing the conman's resolve or merely trying to prepare him for the inevitable.

"I understand." Neal's voice was soft, but there was no faltering in his tone.

Hughes gathered up Cruz and Jones with a curt, "Come with me," and led them out of the building. At the internet cafe, he left Lauren at the door with instructions to not allow anyone else to pass, then he entered. His eyes swept the room automatically for potential threats or ambushes. He wasn't expecting an attack from Caffrey, but he hadn't survived this long without being cautious.

He didn't locate Neal in that first glance, so he moved toward the back, finally spotting him in a booth against the far wall. He was dressed simply in a black turtleneck and looked even worse than the last time him the Bureau Chief had seen him. The swelling around his eye and temple might have subsided, but that left lurid bruising. Even more noticeable were the dark circles staining the skin beneath Neal's eyes. Hughes would be willing to bet he'd had no sleep at all in the last two days. Neal's trademark grin was entirely absent, his body language telegraphing exhaustion rather than his usual exuberance, but he nodded hopefully as Hughes slid onto the seat opposite him, in a strange parody of their last encounter. Jones remaining standing, watching the room, although undoubtedly listening intently to their exchange.

"I'm here and I'm breaking half a dozen rules by not taking you in right away, so this better be good," Hughes stated gruffly.

"It is." Neal leaned forward, and Hughes attempted to retain a modicum of skepticism, knowing that Caffrey had convinced many people of things that weren't true with that open, earnest look.

"You know Peter was going to testify in the Giordano trial next week?"

"Of course I do." Hughes sat back, disappointed. "That's a dead end. Don't you think we looked into that? He wasn't even lead agent in that case. His testimony isn't necessary for conviction, so there's no reason to prevent him testifying."

"No, listen, listen," Neal insisted desperately. His hands had been lying open, flat on some papers lying on the table, probably as a visual demonstration of his harmlessness, but now they drew up into fists, white knuckles matching his ashen face. "It's not about Giordano, not about convicting him. That's not it at all."

His body was taut as a strung bow, practically vibrating with the force of his emotions. At some point, Hughes thought, that tension would snap, with disastrous results.

He took a deep breath before advising Neal to do the same. "Okay, slow down and start from the top."

Neal might have initially attempted a deliberate pace of delivery, but the words were soon tumbling out rapidly. "You're right, Peter wasn't lead agent. It was mostly an organised crime case. Peter was helping out by following the money trail - and brilliantly, too. He not only untangled the knot of dummy corporations and laundering scams, he also realised what the Giordano family itself didn't - that they were missing about 150 million dollars. Their accountant had set up an elaborate shell game with their assets and had built himself quite a nest egg.

"Peter pulled in the accountant, Morris, and worked on him. It was the information gathered from Morris that really built the case against Giordano. They placed him in protective custody, but he died several months later in a car crash that was probably a genuine accident. However, the money he squirreled away was never recovered. With Giordano Senior under arrest, there's been a power struggle for control of the family. Meanwhile the Conti family has been horning in on their territory, so they are extremely short of liquid funds."

"They think Peter knows where the missing money is." Hughes figured out where the story was going.

Neal nodded, an abrupt, jerky movement. "That's why they didn't kill him immediately. They want to question him, to pump him for information one way or another."

His voice cracked and he had to clench his jaw for control. "And they've had him for more than 48 hours."

Hughes' pursed lips acknowledged the gravity of that statement. "You said you know where he is," he prompted.

"I got a list of their property holdings in the New York area, and at this residence..." Neal pulled a photo out of the pile of papers and turned it around for Hughes to see, "...there's been some unusual activity, including the arrival of Jimmy Giordano, the heir apparent. There's also been some interesting deliveries of medical supplies: IV's and units of blood."

It was excellent detective work, and if Neal had been one of his men, Hughes would have certainly told him so, but as it was, he could only say, "I have to verify this independently before I can get a warrant, but I promise you I will follow up on it."

Neal slumped slightly, caught between defeat and hope. "Just hurry. I don't think Peter has much time."

Hughes had a sudden insight into how difficult it was for the young man to merely hand over this information, how desperately he wanted to act on it himself. Only very real concern for his friend enabled him to operate against his own instincts. This made it harder than Hughes had anticipated, but many years of experience helped him to keep his voice impassive as he stated, "I have to take you in now, Neal."

Neal's face was pale and bleached of all emotion except a guarded pain and worry etched around his eyes and mouth. He didn't argue or attempt any delay, merely pushed his papers to Hughes before easing his way out of the booth, the awkward movement removing all remaining color from his face. He wobbled perilously on gaining his feet, knees buckling under his own weight. Jones caught him before he could hit the floor, holding him steady until the conman pulled away, his lips white with strain.

As Jones reluctantly produced his handcuffs, Neal turned around and attempted painfully to put his hands behind his back. The young agent stopped him. "Hey, let's do this Peter Burke style," he joked, as he restrained Neal's hands in front of him, a far more comfortable position.

"Sit down before you fall down," Hughes ordered gruffly. "I'm going to call for a car to take you to processing."

Neal nodded wearily, the passivity of his actions at odds with the tension that still quivered through every muscle. It was the resignation and fear in his expressive eyes that extracted one more question from Hughes.

"You could have mailed this information to me and remained a free man. Why didn't you?"

"Would you have taken me seriously?" For a moment Neal's expression was naked, blazing with a wrenching sorrow and a contradictory resolve.

It was a good point. The fact that Neal was willing to go to jail for this, a prospect that clearly terrified him, gave it an authenticity that was hard to deny.

"Besides," this time, Neal's smile held a wry twist. "I made Peter a promise."

When Jones reported somberly that Neal had been successfully processed and returned to jail without any attempt at escape, Hughes found he wasn't surprised. He was beginning to understand what Peter Burke saw in the young conman, the potential that he was willing to go to such lengths to nurture. Hughes just hoped he'd have the opportunity to inform his favourite agent of this revelation, that Peter was still alive to hear it.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Neal's information proved to be not only accurate, but remarkably detailed, and, on the strength of it, a SWAT team was dispatched that night. They moved in swiftly and efficiently, encountering less resistance than expected, maybe because of the timing of the assault. There was a brief standoff involving Jimmy Giordano's bodyguard, but it was resolved without loss of life. Most importantly, Peter Burke was found unconscious, badly injured but alive, in one of the upstairs rooms. Ironically enough, the wound he'd received in resisting the kidnapping had probably saved his life. Needing him alive for the information they believed he had, they had mostly held off questioning him until he was strong enough to withstand such rigours. He was speedily relocated to the nearest hospital.

For several days, Peter floated in a netherworld of ebbing and rising pain, surfacing just long enough to see El's loving face before sinking back down. These periods of semi-consciousness became more frequent until he finally broke free from the chemical and physical bonds holding him under. Every muscle felt heavy and unresponsive as he tensed involuntarily, trying to pin down the sensation of danger that instantly flooded his mind. He would have thought he was in a hospital with the pervasive smell of antiseptic, the regular beeping beside him, and the press of a tube in his nose, but he had a vague but insistent memory of being tied to a bed somewhere less hospitable, with an IV in his arm, surrounded by unfriendly voices.

"Peter? Are you awake? Can you hear me?"

He would know those beautiful tones anywhere, and his eyes opened automatically in response, his heart jumping slightly at the sight of her as it always did.

"Hey, El." The rasp that emerged didn't sound remotely like his voice, but his wife seemed to appreciate it.

"Oh, Peter." Her lips stretched in a wobbly smile, and her eyes flooded with tears, and he immediately felt terrible for whatever he'd done wrong that had caused that heartbroken expression.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"It's okay, don't worry. Everything's going to be fine. I love you so much."

"Love you too," he managed to whisper, trying to keep his eyes open against the overwhelming pull of gravity.

"I know. Just get some rest, you're going to be okay." The phantom touch of her lips on his forehead lulled him back to sleep.

A thin current of pain burning through his veins woke him the next day in a far more coherent state of mind. Turning his head, he could see Elizabeth asleep on a cot nearby, a cloud of dark hair half-obscuring her face. The sight brought an automatic smile to his. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a better position, but that slight movement caused a shaft of agony to slam through his chest.

His reaction to that must have set off a blinking light or alarm somewhere, because his room soon flooded with medical personnel. They insisted on subjecting him to a battery of tests and questions while he just wanted the opportunity to talk to his wife. Their only saving grace, in his opinion, was increasing the dosage of pain killers that dripped into his IV, enabling him to smile at El as they were finally left alone.

She moved to his side, accepting the hand he offered and kissing him long and softly. Up close, he could see the ravages of worry carved beside her bloodshot eyes, and now he could remember why he had to apologise.

It took a ridiculous effort to raise his hand, stroking his thumb down those tiny lines. "I'm so sorry, El. I never wanted you to have to go through this."

Deep blue eyes regarded him solemnly. "I hope to God I never get a phone call like that again. But ultimately, as long as you come back to me, I'll be okay. I'm just glad you're back."

"I'll always try to come back to you, El." He pulled her hand in for a kiss, since attempting to reach another part of her would be the equivalent of climbing Everest. Honesty also forced him to admit, "But I don't think I can take the credit this time, I can't even remember being rescued." He settled himself more comfortably as he sought to pull scattered and confused memories into focus. "How did they find me? Giordano seemed very confident that no one would even be looking."

"It's a long story," El returned evasively.

For once, Peter didn't notice. His mind had already skipped ahead, making connections. "It was Neal, wasn't it? He figured it all out."

El smiled and nodded, not trusting her voice as a devastating mix of gratitude, guilt, and worry clogged her throat.

A crazy warmth spread through him, and he relaxed against the pillows with a wide grin. "I knew it!" There was a poetic artistry, a symmetry to it. He was the only one who could find Neal, and Neal was the only one who could find him. There was also vindication. Many of his colleagues had mocked him for calling a conman his friend and partner, but he had faith that the young man was worth the derision.

"Has he been here? I don't remember seeing him. Oh, I suppose we're out of his radius. Well, I would have thought..." He glanced over at El. Her face was partly averted on the pretext of pouring a cup of water, but not enough to hide the sheen of tears in her eyes. A cold hand seemed to slither up his spine. "El? What's wrong? Oh, God, it's Neal. What's happened to him?"

He levered himself up on one elbow, ignoring the jolting pain that resulted from the maneuver and the accompanying frantic increase in pace of the beeping beside him. Suddenly, there was a nurse in the room, and El was on her feet, trying to gently push him back.

"Please stop. Neal is fine; it's you we're worried about." Peter had never rated himself highly on picking up marital signals, but ten years of marriage did give him some insight into when his spouse was being less than truthful.

"What aren't you telling me?" He suddenly noticed that the nurse had a syringe in her hand and was about to inject it into the IV. "No, please stop. I'm perfectly calm." He lay back down on the pillows to illustrate his point, but his thudding heart betrayed him. He could feel the sedative creeping through his veins and made one last appeal. "El, please. I have to know." But it was too late, the drug was pulling him under, and the last thing he saw, as the room seemed to slither sideways, was tears streaming down his wife's beautiful face.

Peter fought against the drug, limbs twitching with rebellion even in his enforced sleep, the sense of urgency following him down. He jerked awake several hours later to the feeling that something was terribly wrong, but the sticky webs of the sedative clouded his mind, preventing him from identifying the cause of his unease. As he twisted around and saw Elizabeth, the memories flooded back. "Don't let them do that again," he said thickly, hating the sensation of being out of control.

She nodded in agreement. There was evidence of recent tears, but her expression was composed and resolute. She squeezed the hand she was holding in reassurance. "I will tell you everything you want to know, but you need to relax and give yourself time to heal."

He tried to follow her instructions, but he could already hear his tension reflected in the thrice-damned heart monitor.

"Neal is alive," Elizabeth stated hurriedly, "And to the best of my knowledge, unhurt."

Relief wrangled with an uneasiness that coiled in his belly. There was a 'but' coming, and he made no interruptions to delay it.

"But," Elizabeth continued with palpable reluctance. "He has been put back in jail."

"No! Damn it!" He heard as well as felt his heart working overtime to make up for the beat it had skipped, and he shut his eyes in an effort to regain enough control not to set off any alarms while he assimilated the news. This was the thing he'd dreaded the most and worked so diligently to prevent. Despite his criminal proclivities, Neal didn't belong in jail. His gentle heart, brilliant mind and clever, nimble fingers had so much to offer. Neal was fit and agile, but he was no fighter, and the knowledge of what could happen to him, especially now he'd be seen as an informant, sent fear spiraling and twisting through his gut like a snake.

Someone had entered the room, and El was talking to them softly, but he paid no attention to their conversation. He concentrated on taking deep breaths, trying to displace the picture of the man who had so unaccountably become his best friend locked up in a cell.

As Elizabeth returned to his side, he opened his eyes, emotions battened down as tightly as he could manage. "Why?" he started without preamble. "You said he helped, that he was the one who found me. Why would they..." A sudden thought occurred to him. "Did he break in somewhere to obtain the information?" The idea that Neal would sacrifice his freedom for Peter's safety churned nauseously inside. He knew that Neal wouldn't hesitate to do it, despite his fear of being locked up again. He thought back to Neal's bravado-filled, "I don't care" when the agent had pointed out that the quixotic escape would cost him four more year in jail. The lie had been obvious. To someone as free-spirited and refined as Neal, the coarse living and restrictions of prison must be intolerable. The fact that he had survived almost four years with his soul intact was a miracle, or, more likely, a testament to his strength of character.

Elizabeth hastened to correct this misapprehension, even though the truth wasn't much better. "No, it's not that. Look, it's... it's complicated, and I really don't know all the details. I was more concerned about you." She took a deep breath, partly to compose herself and partly to organise her thoughts. "They thought you were dead," and despite how carefully she stated it and her best intentions, her throat closed up and tears sprang unbidden.

Peter heard the unvoiced subtext of '_I_ thought you were dead,' and immediately reached for his wife. El didn't resist. Needing the physical contact, but mindful of his injuries, she snuggled into his right shoulder and gave in to her emotions. Peter ignored the increasing dampness of his hospital gown and murmured a constant stream of apologies and loving consolations.

They stayed like that for a long time before El pulled away. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve before taking a tissue from a half-empty box on the bedside table and blowing her nose.

"El," Peter said helplessly, wanting to offer more comfort, but lost as to how to accomplish that under the circumstances.

She offered a tremulous smile, a shadow of her normal grin, and Peter was torn between wanting to spare his wife the further trauma of recitation and needing to know what had happened to his friend. Thankfully, after one last swipe at her cheeks, El continued without prompting.

"They arrested Neal for your murder."

"What! That's ridiculous, Neal would never hurt me! What kind of incompetent idiots are they employing nowadays!" He continued to rant in the same vein for several minutes until he caught sight of the smirk El was trying to suppress and trailed off sheepishly.

"Oh, don't stop on my account. I said more or less the same thing when they told me. I was actually rude to poor Reese."

As the first wave of anger and incredulity receded, Peter actually found himself relieved and he settled back, exhausted by the emotional turmoil he'd experienced. "You know, this isn't as bad as I feared. Clearly, I'm not dead, and he had nothing to do with the kidnapping so we should be able to get him out of there quickly."

Elizabeth didn't share his optimism, but hesitated to disclose her reservations now that her husband had calmed down. "You can talk to Reese about it tomorrow. As long as you feel up to it, he'll be coming in to take your statement."

Peter perked up slightly. "Call him and tell him to come in today."

However, El could see the white strain dusted around his mouth and had no intention of allowing anything that would jeopardize his recovery. "It can wait 'til tomorrow." She overrode Peter's immediate objection. "No, Reese is busy, and you need to rest."

Peter would probably have protested more if it hadn't been so damn difficult to keep his eyes open.


	5. Chapter 5

A.N. Wow, that's interesting! There's quite a difference in response between a Neal chapter and a Peter chapter. Are there really that many more Neal fans? I love Peter every bit as much as Neal and my stories will always contain both characters in equal measure. Where's the Peter love?

A.N.2 Thanks again to Susan for the wonderful beta. Your comments are always so helpful.

Chapter Five

By the time Hughes showed up the next day, Peter was irritable and restless. His sleep had been filled with wrenching nightmares, fragmented splinters of memory. He was frustrated by lying helpless in bed while Neal was unjustly imprisoned, and he was also not looking forward to rehashing his recent ordeal. He had asked Elizabeth to leave while he gave his formal statement. He would talk to her about it in his own time, downplaying certain aspects of the experience and completing ignoring others. It would be very different from the dry, clinical, overly factual account he would have to deliver to Hughes. So, as his boss entered, El gave him a quick kiss and an admonitory whisper in his ear, then departed in search of a warm shower and a decent meal.

Peter was sitting propped up against the pillows, and all visible attachments had been removed except the heart monitor and IV. It was a more dignified position than that imposed on him the previous day, and Peter was grateful for that as he reached out to shake his boss's hand.

"Glad to see you looking better," Hughes remarked in greeting.

"Feeling better, Sir," Peter returned politely.

They exchanged a few more pleasantries, and Peter inquired after the progress of a case he'd been working on for the two weeks before his disappearance. He was biding his time before asking the question he really wanted answered, not wishing to seem too eager, but finally, as Hughes opened his briefcase to remove the recording device, he cleared his throat and took the plunge.

"Sir, about Neal..."

Nothing showed on the older man's face, and Peter realised he'd been expecting the question. Yet, there was something in his sudden, stilted movements and the silence that stretched between them, hanging like an almost palpable weight, that sent fear crawling along the skin of his arms, raising the fine hairs. Then, as if coming to a sudden decision, Hughes spoke.

"We'll talk about Caffrey later. First, we have to get this business finished. We need your statement."

For a moment, Peter didn't know how to respond. The bitter awareness that something was very wrong settled heavily over his spirits, and he wanted to demand answers. But Hughes wasn't a man who would appreciate such forthright tactics, and he couldn't afford to alienate the person who might prove crucial to Neal's future.

"Yes, Sir," he ground out reluctantly. His imagination was feeding him dozens of scenarios, each more terrible than the last, and he had to force himself to repress the cascade of images and concentrate on retrieving what he could from his memory.

"I...um...I was alone in the house. My wife was away visiting her sister, and she'd taken our dog with her. I was woken sometime after 1a.m. by a noise in the house." He'd actually thought it might be Neal, because the man had the habit of showing up unexpectedly at his home, so he hadn't immediately called for back up. "I took my weapon and went to check it out. There were two men, both wearing ski masks, no weapon that I could see. They were going through the drawers in our living room. I identified myself as a Federal agent and informed them I was armed. They surrendered without protest, which probably should have made me suspicious. However, they followed instructions and assumed the position. I came further down the stairs to go to the phone to call for backup."

He took a deep breath. "It was a trap, and I fell right into it. There was a third man who was hidden. The first two were there just to make enough noise and draw me down. It's a good thing that they weren't there to kill me, because I wouldn't have stood a chance. I think I heard something, because I was turning as the guy swung at me with the baseball bat. I was able to diminish some of the impact, but my gun went flying. After that...it's really confused. I fought back, and I guess they were hampered by not wanting to cause too much damage. Then, I spotted my gun, managed to get across to it. Once I got my hands on it, I suppose they decided that disobeying orders was better than getting killed, so they shot first."

Just recounting the event made his heart pound heavily, aching as if a great weight were crushing it. He coughed slightly, giving himself the opportunity to take a break under the guise of needing a drink of water. The shock and blood loss at the time had erased much of the emotional impact, but he remembered the tearing regret for the grief El would suffer and also the fear that without his presence, Neal, too, would be lost, that he would revert to a life of crime or perhaps be arbitrarily thrown back in jail. It was ironic that he'd foreseen that consequence but for the wrong reasons.

Hughes allowed him the breather, pausing the recorder and giving him some privacy by sorting through some papers from a folder, but suddenly Peter wanted nothing more than to finish his statement and get the answers he needed.

"There's not much else to add," he said abruptly. Hughes quickly turned the recorder back on. "I vaguely remember being in a van." He gave a humorless laugh. "They were panicking because they couldn't stop the bleeding. I also remember them hooking me up to an IV and... questions. They kept asking me questions, about money, I think, but I was too far out of it. That's really all. I'm just glad you found me." He looked intently at his boss. "El said it was Neal that put it all together."

Hughes met his gaze, and Peter tried to read something in that impassive face. It seemed to soften slightly. "I'll get to that, I promise. Let's tie this up."

Peter looked at a few photographs and identified two of the faces he remembered seeing, then signed some necessary paperwork before throwing the pen down with finality. "That's it. Now I want to know what the hell is going on. Why is Neal still in jail when it's obvious that not only am I not dead, but he had nothing to do with it?"

His voice rose in pitch as frustration and anger revved his speech to the wrong side of civility. Strangely, it only seemed to make Hughes look more weary.

"Unfortunately, it's not that simple."

"Why not? He was arrested for my murder, and I'm not dead. What could be simpler than that?" The last word seemed to whistle slightly as the tightness in his chest made it hard to breathe. "Damn it!" He leaned forward, panting, to ease that constriction as the room started swirling freely around him .

He realised a nurse was beside him with another syringe, and he dragged in enough air to growl, "If you stick that in, I'll just yank the entire IV out of my arm." His face seemed stuck between a scowl and an entreaty.

To his surprise, she chuckled, "Okay, I'll make you a deal. You promise not to get agitated, and I'll promise to keep the needles away. Just remember, nothing is worth your health."

Peter chose not to argue with her, and also ignored the fact that she made him sound like a five-year-old having a tantrum, merely nodding gratefully. "It's a deal."

She didn't immediately disappear but stayed to plump his pillows and help him sit more comfortably until his heart rate and breathing returned to a level that was more acceptable to her.

As she left, a glance at Hughes showed him a worried frown, but that was so close to his normal expression it was uninformative.

"Please explain," Peter asked with exquisite calm.

Hughes sighed. "I put in all the paperwork to get Neal released, but it was blocked at a higher level."

"Why?" Peter demanded.

"You know Neal's release wasn't parole. It wasn't just contingent on him not breaking the law. It was about whether the risk of him escaping or otherwise damaging the reputation of the department was outweighed by the information and assistance he supplied."

"And it has been," Peter protested hotly. "He's been a tremendous asset to the department. In fact, he's gone far beyond what we originally asked of him. He's put his life on the line for us, time and again."

"You make a strong argument there." Hughes' word choice was slow and careful, and Peter tilted his head slightly, trying to read the message behind them.

"There's going to be a hearing next Thursday to decide Caffrey's future in the department." His boss paused. "When are you expecting to be discharged?"

"Before next Thursday," Peter answered promptly and not entirely accurately.

"They won't let you testify if you're out AMA," Hughes warned.

"I won't be." It was said with confidence, as Peter was already planning a con worthy of Neal. The only possible monkey wrench was El, who would not be happy to see him pushing himself too fast, but she, too, was fond of Neal and, with a little persuasion, would be a convincing accomplice.

Hughes pulled a slim file out of the briefcase. "There are other complications you should know about."

Peter stared at his boss, his face set grimly. He was getting heartily sick of the rollercoaster of hope he'd been riding.

"There are two possible additional charges pending against Neal," Hughes stated reluctantly.

If Peter gritted his teeth any harder, he was going to need reconstructive dental work before he left the hospital. "Legitimate ones?"

"The first - I'm not so sure, the second - yes, but with extenuating circumstances. To start with, he's charged with resisting arrest."

"That's bull. Neal doesn't resist arrest, and I should know." Peter interrupted hotly.

"The unanimous opinion of the arresting team is that he did. Circumstances were very different from the times you arrested him, Peter. To be honest, I don't think he was operating on all cylinders, having just been accused of your murder. However, it is also entirely possible that with the reputed death of a popular agent, our guys were looking for an excuse to get in a few licks of their own."

There was only one conclusion to be drawn from that, and fear turned to a lead weight in the pit of his stomach as Peter processed it. "Was Neal hurt? El said he was okay."

"She had enough on her plate worrying about you. I saw no point adding to her concerns." He held up a hand to stop Peter's angry expostulations. "It was nothing too serious - a few cracked ribs and some admittedly severe bruising. Here's a copy of the arrest report."

Peter perused the file quickly, a frown cutting deep grooves between his eyes. He took particular note of the arresting officer - Bill Seaton. The man would regret allowing this travesty of justice, Peter would see to that. He'd been so concerned that Neal would be injured in jail, yet it was the Bureau that had hurt him. Rage at that betrayal burned acidly inside.

He looked up. "Why do I get the feeling you're saving the best for last?" A slight grimace showed him he'd guessed right.

"Caffrey escaped from custody again," Hughes stated with the abruptness of pulling off a band aid.

The words brought automatic dismay, then total confusion. "But...I don't understand...I thought you said..."

"Neal escaped just long enough to investigate your disappearance - after all, he was the only one who knew for sure he was innocent; then he turned himself in." He shook his head ruefully. "I have to admit, I'm as impressed as hell, and not just at his outstanding detective work in finding you. He was free and clear, but he chose not only to use that freedom to save his partner, but also to surrender himself afterwards, thus not only supporting his arguments as to your whereabouts, but freeing up the Bureau agents to follow up on his deductions."

Peter had had a surfeit of bad news; it had been his steady diet since awakening. An invisible band seemed to wrap around his chest, and he tried to take a deep breath, but circumstances pressed too heavily upon him.

A cauldron of emotions seethed inside, but pride and anguish somehow bubbled to the top together. That incorrigible, infuriating, loyal, stupid son-of-a-bitch. He had indeed sacrificed his freedom for Peter's safety. Neal's tendency to make decisions that were so far from his best interest had always angered and frustrated Peter; as the beneficiary of that selflessness this time, he couldn't really complain, but it hurt in a way he didn't want to analyze.

He had a sudden memory of Neal asking if Peter had his back. There had been a promise implicitly made on both their parts that day. Neal had kept his side of the pact and protected his partner in the only way he could. Now it was Peter's turn to step up to the plate. All of a sudden, he felt considerably more positive. He had focus and a purpose and knew exactly what he needed to do. He was going to get Neal out of jail, in whatever way it took.

He realised he hadn't acknowledged his boss's confession. "Neal is.." He fished around for the word he wanted, but it was as elusive as the man himself, and he settled on, "...one-of-a-kind. Sir, I'm going to need..."

"I've got everything right here." Like a slightly emaciated, professional version of Santa Claus, Hughes started pulling things out of his briefcase: a laptop and several files. He paused before throwing the last item on the bed, tapping the plastic case thoughtfully. "This is a copy of Neal's interrogation. Don't watch it just yet; get a good night's sleep first."

"It's that bad?" Peter asked uneasily.

Hughes didn't respond, but surveyed the mass of paperwork he'd dumped on the bed. "Elizabeth's going to kill me, isn't she?"

Peter summoned a tired smirk, "Are you afraid of my wife?"

Hughes almost smiled. "I think I am. I certainly don't want her upset at me for causing your health to deteriorate."

"I think she'll understand. I really appreciate this, Sir. If I had to just sit here with nothing to do, then I would go crazy."

Hughes left with a last promise of assistance if there was anything else Peter needed.

Finally alone, Peter slumped down in the bed, feeling leaden and brain-dead, his body simply unable to maintain the level of energy it was pouring into emotion. He needed to rest, so he shut his eyes in the fond hope that it would encourage sleep, but, despite his best efforts, his mind refused to be silenced. It still hummed along in top gear, rehashing Neal's actions and their consequences, planning his strategy to get his friend released. The ache in his chest eased slightly as ideas sparked and plans formed.

Carefully scooting back up the bed, he opened the laptop and switched it on.

Elizabeth was feeling relaxed. The recuperative powers of a long soak in the tub followed by comfort food couldn't be overstated. She gently pushed open the hospital door, hoping to find Peter asleep, then stared aghast at the sight of him sitting bolt upright in bed, staring so intently at a computer screen he was oblivious to her entrance. She was familiar with the expression on his face, a determination that would light a candle at ten paces.

"Peter," she cried out reprovingly.

His head shot round guiltily, a grimace crossing his face at the sudden movement. "Oh, honey," he floundered for a moment. "You're looking so much better." He winced, recognising the tactlessness in that sentiment and backtracking fast enough to give him whiplash. "Not that you weren't looking absolutely beautiful before."

"You're supposed to be resting," she pointed out a trifle testily.

"I am!" It was said as indignantly as if she'd accused him of trying to run a marathon.

"Peter." This time there was a distinct wobble in the word, which instantly demolished all his defenses.

"El, don't; come here!" He tucked her gingerly against his good side, giving it several minutes before continuing cautiously. "I have to get Neal out of jail."

Elizabeth straightened up. "If it's the last thing you do?" she asked with a touch of bitterness.

"It's not like that, sweetheart. I promise you. I'll be careful." He hated putting more worry in her eyes, but his job had given him experience with that conflict.

Elizabeth's voice was soft but insistent. "I'm sure Neal would be the first to tell you that a couple of days won't make that much difference. He spent four years in jail before, remember."

It wasn't as if they had never argued in ten years of marriage. But nearly every time, Peter had had to practice his best apology skills, acknowledging that he'd been mostly in the wrong. Elizabeth had the rare combination of intelligence, common sense, and interpersonal skills. She was a wonderful listener and had always been his sounding board, a reliable and constant source of support and advice. It wasn't like her to prod at a sore spot. Yes, he'd sent Neal to prison before. It had been the right thing to do, but it wasn't something he particularly wanted to be reminded of, especially under the circumstances. He was unsure how to deal with her in an adversarial position, even while understanding that her objections arose from concern for him.

"But this IS different," he protested weakly.

However, it seemed to deflate her frustrations, and she trailed her finger down his jaw line in apology. "I know. I know this time he's innocent. I know what he's sacrificed for you. I just want you to give yourself time to heal."

He hated to play on her guilt, but she had to understand. "Honey, Hughes didn't want to worry you any further, so he didn't tell you everything. Neal's hurt, and he's alone. And it's not just that." He paused, not wanting to frighten her, but needing to reveal his worst fear. "Last time, he wasn't an FBI informant. Every minute he's in jail, he's in danger."

Elizabeth's eyes were now wide with comprehension and a dawning fear. "What are you going to do?"

"There's an FBI hearing to decide Neal's future next Thursday. I'm going to marshall some extremely effective arguments on his behalf and try to sabotage any effort to set up opposing arguments."

"And if you can't?" She could see his pulse pounding in his neck, his lips pressed together, and had a sudden wild vision of him planning a jail break. Luckily, what came out of his mouth was more prosaic.

"If all else fails, I get Neal to sue the department for false arrest and brutality. It should be enough for them to make a deal."

She had no difficulty interpreting the sadness behind that determined statement. "However, he'd never be able to work for the FBI again." It wouldn't do Peter's career any good either, but neither of them voiced that concern.

"I'd have to find some other way to keep him out of trouble." He smiled in a flimsy attempt at reassurance. "It's a last resort, honey. I don't intend for it to come to that."

"Okay." El sat upright, although she still held his hand firmly in hers. "You get a good night's sleep now, and I'll do everything I can to help you tomorrow."

Peter wasn't going to fight her any longer on that issue. Exhaustion, worry, pain, and the drugs still lingering in his system had left him emotionally brittle, and he needed a respite from the continuous stress. El helped him to settle down more comfortably in the bed.

Thoughts continued to roll around his overtired brain in random patterns until bone-deep weariness pulled him under.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Peter straightened his tie, then wiped damp palms surreptitiously on his pants, although no one was around to see. He'd like to believe that the sudden sweating was the result of physical exertions on his injuries, and there was undoubtedly some truth to that. His doctor had been reluctant to release him so early, and it had taken all his FBI-learned authority and El's promise to make sure he faithfully kept to his meds before the physician could be persuaded to sign the papers. However, knowing he couldn't afford his thinking to be clouded in any manner, Peter had chosen basic non-narcotic painkillers for that morning, and was now feeling every inch of abuse his body had taken which hitherto had been mitigated by happy juice.

But, if he was honest with himself, the main cause of the perspiration was simple nervousness. He was no stranger to stressful situations - he gave testimony in court on a regular basis, gave presentations to his superiors and even faced murderers coolly while working undercover. Yet he'd never been so worried about screwing up before, since the consequences of such an act would be potentially lethal to someone he'd come to care for deeply.

The doors of the room were still shut, since he'd arrived at the hearing early, having an ulterior motive. He was, so far, the only one sitting on the wooden benches that lined the hall outside, but he knew that was about to change. Solid footsteps approached, faltering momentarily as they turned the corner. Peter suppressed a smirk of satisfaction and looked up with a cordial smile, the smile of a crocodile before it eats its prey.

"Hey, Bill."

The starburst of rage that rocketed up inside his chest at the sight of the man almost caught him by surprise, and he worked to keep that cold blue anger out of his eyes. Images from Neal's interrogation were seared onto his retinas, haunting him. The picture quality had been slightly grainy, mercifully blurring some of the details, but not enough to disguise Neal's injuries - the violent discoloration and swelling on his face and the hunched, rigid posture which betrayed damage that wasn't so visible.

Even worse than the physical damage had been the emotion bleeding from his eyes even though they remained glassy and unfocused. He'd not responded to Seaton's unrelenting badgering, not even flinching as the agent slammed the table with both fists, intense and intimidating. This silence had clearly not stemmed from a refusal to cooperate or from sullenness. Neal was quite obviously in shock. The relief of seeing Neal finally responding to Hughes' presence had quickly been buried under the palpable anguish of that interview.

Maybe Peter wasn't doing as good a job as he believed in hiding the anger that flooded through him, white hot and dangerous, because Seaton looked as if he were considering alternate seating. Peter shuffled along the bench invitingly, forcing the other man to accept the offer or actively snub him.

"Peter. Good to see you alive," he greeted him awkwardly.

"No thanks to you." The words were sharp, but Peter maintained an affable smile, forcing the man on the defensive without giving him an actual reason to leave. He sat through a minute of Seaton attempting to excuse his poor performance before cutting him off abruptly.

"You screwed up - in more ways than one, and I'm telling you now, if in any way you say anything in this hearing that hurts Caffrey's chances of getting out of prison, I guarantee we'll bring charges of brutality against you, and I will personally make sure you never receive that promotion you're bucking for."

He watched with interest as Seaton's cheeks warmed to a choleric red. "There was no brutality. He resisted arrest," he growled.

"Bullshit! You know, it's a shame that neither you nor Neal stuck around for the doctor's report on his injuries. It makes for interesting reading." His face hardened as he took a photograph out of a file sitting on his knees. Boot-shaped bruises were clearly visible on a slim torso. "Would you care to explain to me why you kicked him while he was lying on the ground? I have a doctor who's willing to testify that that is the only way this injury could have occurred."

"I never touched him!"

"So you're telling me you couldn't control the men under your command."

Seaton's mouth snapped shut, and he glared at Peter in frustrated disgust. "What the hell is it with you, Burke - are you soft on this criminal? There's them and there's us. Are you forgetting which side you're on?"

There were so many things Peter wanted to reply to that, but he stuck with one he thought might be understood. "I know this 'criminal' saved my life while my 'side' was too blinded by their own prejudices to see what was right in front of their noses. But I'm a reasonable guy, and I won't make an issue of that as long as you follow my terms."

The look of loathing he received clearly told him that he'd made an enemy for life, but the reluctant nod of assent that accompanied it vindicated his actions. Maybe he could have been more subtle and placating, but he was angry, in a vengeful way he'd rarely experienced before, over Neal's treatment at the hands of the department, and he didn't give a rat's ass about this agent's feeling toward him.

He may have won that fight, but it was only the first part of the battle. But, now that the enemy was engaged, his nervousness had transmuted into an implacable determination. He was going to get Neal out of jail; no other outcome was acceptable. Neal didn't belong in prison, maybe he never had. When Peter had first arrested the young conman, he had attempted to mitigate both the severity of the sentence - by testifying as to the nonviolent nature of his crimes - and the prison conditions - by placing him in Supermax where he would have an individual cell and better guard supervision.

While chasing Neal, he had discovered everything he could about him, as much of his background as he could uncover: every habit, every quirk, every whim. So, when they first started to work together and an easy familiarity seemed to exist between them from the first day, he put it down to that knowledge and the strange dance that had existed between them for the three years he had pursued the young man. However, it hadn't taken long to figure out how much they had in common. It was not superficial interests that they shared - Neal would prefer a good museum to any form of organised sport - rather, their brains meshed. Peter never had to explain his sudden leaps of thought and intuition; Neal could always follow effortlessly. They shared a sardonic sense of humour, but, perhaps most importantly, they both held a strong belief in justice. Peter's was more legalistic, while Neal's was more creative and organic - the type that returns a stolen painting to its rightful owner, rather than its legal owner - but Peter admired that even as he noted its propensity to get Neal into trouble. Now his own sense of fairness was outraged, and he was intent on making the situation right.

The room didn't so much resemble a court as a congressional hearing. The basic layout consisted of one long table with several black chairs spaced along it, facing another with three larger, leather armchairs. Peter had comprehensively researched the records of the three-man adjudicating committee, wanting some indications of what might influence them. Assistant Director Robinson, the man chairing the hearing, was reputed to be fair and open-minded. The same couldn't be said for the OPR representative, Morgan Schmidt. He might not be Fowler, but in Peter's mind, he was tainted with the same corrupt brush. The third member of the Board, Section Chief Walters, was an excellent, if phlegmatic, agent and could go either way.

The three men filed in from the back and took their seats, making themselves comfortable. Robinson called the meeting to order.

"This hearing is to determine the advisability of releasing Neal Caffrey from jail and his future as a consultant to this department"

Peter immediately raised a hand. The assistant director looked slightly surprised to be interrupted so early, but recognised him anyway. "Agent Burke?"

"Assistant Director. I have to say that I am confused by the stated purpose of this hearing - why Caffrey's position is being called into question. The only reason he's in prison right now is because he was arrested for a crime of which he was totally innocent, as my presence here clearly confirms. A crime which, in fact, he had no connection to at all."

"This Board recognises that fact, but the incident has raised some questions as to Mr. Caffrey's conduct, namely his resisting arrest and his escape from custody, and thus his suitability to be working with the FBI."

Robinson obviously considered the matter closed, but Peter raised his hand again. He was aware he might be shooting his career in the foot, but his long service and exemplary arrest record should be worth some latitude. "Assistant Director, I would like to address each of those issues in turn."

He received a slightly impatient nod. "That is the purpose of the hearing, Agent Burke."

"Understood, Sir. I'd just like to save this committee some time. After talking to some of the arresting agents, it seems clear that Neal wasn't attempting to resist anyone. As someone who has arrested him twice, I can attest to the fact that Neal is one of the least violent people you are likely to meet but, with all due respect, if twenty armed men burst into your house, woke you from a deep sleep, and accused you of something you hadn't done, you might panic, too. It seems clear that Caffrey was in shock and didn't even know what he was doing."

The AD raised a hand to cut him off. "Agent Seaton, would you care to address this issue?"

Peter smiled at his colleague benevolently, a fingernail tapping innocently on the file in front of him as the violent crimes agent stumbled through a few questions, trying not to contradict his original report, yet at the same time confirm Peter's explanation. Yes, Caffrey had appeared to be in shock. Now he'd given it some thought, maybe Caffrey hadn't really been violent, just confused. Seaton subsided gratefully when the attention ceased, and he sat stony faced through the rest of the proceedings.

The AD made a notation on the pad in front of him. "I'm happy to drop the issue of resisting arrest, but there is no doubt that Caffrey escaped from custody."

"Assistant Director, if Neal Caffrey had intended to run, he wouldn't be in prison right now. He would be enjoying the cultural attractions of Paris, or soaking up some sunshine on a Caribbean beach. He'd been falsely accused, falsely arrested, and no one believed him, so he was the only one who realised the implications of his innocence - what it meant in terms of my disappearance. If he had not done so, I would almost certainly be dead, so I find it hard to begrudge him 48 hours of freedom." He stared at the three men, daring them to contradict that statement.

Hughes gestured for recognition, and Peter tensed slightly. His boss had certainly supported his attempt to free Neal in private, but publicly he might be forced to play a different role. "I can confirm that Caffrey's surrender was entirely voluntary. He chose to give himself up without any conditions on his own behalf. Considering the information he had, he could have bargained for a reduction of sentence or dismissal of charges, and I would have worked with him. The only thing he asked was that I read the information that led us to free Agent Burke."

The AD looked impressed, but Peter wasn't surprised. He was aware how fiercely loyal Neal was to anyone he called a friend. It was only when Neal believed he owed his loyalty to friends from his former life of crime, and particularly Kate, that Peter worried.

He was beginning to hope that the hearing would be summarily wrapped up, that he could get his partner out of jail, when Schmidt spoke up. "How did Caffrey acquire this valuable information?"

Peter's heart sank, but he kept quiet, hoping Hughes would field the question. After a moment's hesitation, his boss did speak up. "I didn't inquire. Caffrey is a skilled investigator in his own right and has many contacts."

"That's what concerns me. How many of those contacts operate legally? What are we condoning here? I find the idea of a criminal working for us quite distasteful and against everything the Bureau stands for."

Peter tried to judge the effect of this self-righteous speech on the other Board members and choked back the impulse to tell him he'd ended it with a preposition. Robinson was frowning, and it was unclear whether it was in disapproval or agreement. Peter chose to address him directly.

"Sir, this issue was discussed when we started this program. It was felt at the time that Caffrey would be a valuable asset, and he's proved to be so. In fact, he has exceeded all expectations." He held up the manila folder. "If you would like to look at this file, we have documented all the cases that Caffrey has helped us solve." From the early days of their partnership, Peter had been working on recording all the instances of Neal's assistance, hoping that, if anything happened to him, it would help protect Neal.

Schmidt continued his offensive. "Are you telling us, Agent Burke, that you cannot do your job without help from a convict?"

Seaton gave a suppressed snigger, obviously enjoying the other agent being put on the spot, but Peter recognised the trap. "Not at all, Sir." He kept his face impassive, not reacting to the jibe. "But, as agents, we are taught to use every available resource, whether that is technology, experts in various fields, or paid informants. What I _am_ telling you is that, with Caffrey, I can solve crimes quicker and more efficiently."

Schmidt's lip curled in contempt. "It seems to me that we're taking an already resourceful and intelligent criminal and teaching him everything there is to know about FBI policy and procedure. This strikes me as extremely short sighted at best and disastrous at worst."

"I respectfully disagree, Sir. You are assuming that Caffrey intends to continue a life of crime. I believe that by working with him and giving him options, we have reduced the chances of that likelihood to negligible."

"Are you willing to stake your career that he isn't a flight risk, Agent Burke?" the AD asked intently.

"Yes, Sir, I am," Peter answered without hesitation. It was said with definitive assurance, and it was true. Peter was indeed willing to risk his career. He trusted Neal with his life, he would even trust him with Elizabeth's. He would trust him never to run if it weren't for one fly in the ointment, but the fly was more like a Queen Bee, sleek, beautiful and with a deadly sting - Kate. Neal wouldn't run for himself, but all bets were off when it involved that femme fatale. However, the committee didn't need to be informed of that possibility.

"I think that if Caffrey were going to run, he would have done so when he was free of the anklet and supervision, and under suspicion of murder," Hughes reinforced the concept.

Peter decided this was an appropriate time to launch a counterattack of his own. "Sir, since the anklet has been brought up, I would like to express my concerns regarding the misappropriation of the device. This is the second time to our knowledge that its data has been tampered with. It does not appear that this tampering came from the Giordano organisation. To the best of our belief, this could only come from the Marshall's office or within the FBI itself."

"Are you accusing someone?" Robinson leaned forward intently, but there was no censure in his voice.

"No, Sir." Peter resisted the urge to stare at Schmidt. "I haven't found anything...yet... to justify any charges. I just think an investigation into the issue is warranted. I personally would like to know who is so eager for Caffrey to be returned to jail."

It was a calculated precision strike. If Schmidt were to remain strident in his insistence that Neal remain in prison, it would cast suspicion in his direction, and hopefully he wouldn't risk that.

Robinson nodded. "Thank you for your contribution to this hearing, Agent Burke. Do you have anything further you want to add?"

"No, Sir." He suddenly changed his mind. "Actually, yes, I do." He'd kept his testimony impersonal, knowing that revealing the strong friendship that had sprung up between them would only hurt his case. He was there as the world's authority on Neal Caffrey, and he had to give the appearance of impartiality. However, at this point, he believed that putting the case on a slightly more personal level might improve Neal's chances.

"I think we are forgetting something very important; what about the responsibility the FBI owes to Caffrey?"

There was silence. No one seemed to think this was a worthwhile consideration. The range of reactions started with quizzical, moving through skeptical and ending with incredulous. Robinson at least kept it polite. "Would you like to explain your reasoning, Agent Burke?"

"We made an agreement with Caffrey. If he kept his nose clean and helped us, he would stay out of jail. He's more than kept his side of the bargain. He's gone far beyond just consulting for us. He's gone undercover and risked his life several times. Now, through absolutely no fault of his own, he's back in prison. Everybody here knows how the prison grapevine works. Now he'll be known as a narc, a traitor, and every hand will be set against him. We've set him up to be shanked at the earliest opportunity. If we don't get him out soon, he's a dead man, and he's done nothing to deserve that. He may be a criminal, but he's never hurt anyone, and he saved my life and we've just hung him out to dry."

"You have an interesting perspective, Agent Burke." Robinson made a few more notations on his notepad, and silence fell for several minutes over the entire room. The adrenaline high Peter had maintained since he first confronted Seaton started to subside in the pause, and the pain he'd successfully ignored reasserted itself. He discovered that the deep anger had covered an even deeper fear, and he started to second guess himself. Had he been convincing enough? Was there something else he could have said that would have conveyed more credibility? He fought not to slump in the sudden rush of exhaustion, keeping his focus on the Assistant Director.

Robinson leaned over and quietly asked each of the other Board members a question which they both answered with a shake of their heads. Then he straightened up. "Thank you, gentlemen, for your insights. I am convinced that Neal Caffrey is an asset to the Bureau, and that his skills are better applied with us than in jail. He is as much a victim as anyone of the events of the past few weeks, and, in fact, comported himself admirably, if not perhaps always wisely, under extremely difficult circumstances. Section Chief?"

Walters had remained silent throughout the hearing and given no clues as to where his sympathies lay. His decision was critical, as the verdict lay in the balance. It was succinct, but unwavering. "I think results speak for themselves. White Collar's record is currently the envy of all the other sections. Besides, if Hughes vouches for him, who I am to demur."

They'd done it! A tidal wave of knee-weakening relief swamped Peter, soothing his aches but also sapping his strength, the true drain of the day on his body and soul beginning to hit. It was a majority vote, leaving the OPR agent powerless to prevent Neal's release.

Schmidt clearly realised he had nothing to gain by making waves at this point and conceded with a final objection. "I'd like to go on record as opposing experiments of this sort. I believe it blurs lines which need to be kept clear. However, it appears in this instance that Caffrey has earned himself a second chance."

"Excellent." Robinson made a final notation. "Therefore, it is the unanimous decision of this hearing that Neal Caffrey is restored to his former position of consultant to the White Collar Unit. Agent Burke, I understand you believe time is of the essence." He held out a piece of paper. "Take this down to Legal, and they can start processing it immediately."

As much as Peter wanted to get his hands on that document, his body rebelled, unequal to the demands of moving after sitting in place for so long. Luckily, Hughes, sensing his difficulty, and flanking him on the table, rose naturally to intercept. Bracing himself against the table, Peter rose shakily to his feet as the members of the Board filed out, sitting back down with an ungraceful thump as the door closed behind them. He heard rather than saw Seaton depart.

"You're an idiot." Hughes' voice was exasperated, but seemed to contain a chuckle, and Peter glanced up blearily to try to catch a smile on his boss's face. "But you did a good job. Look, I'll drop the paperwork off. You need to get home and rest. You can pick up Caffrey tomorrow."

"No, Sir. I'm getting him out today. But I'd appreciate it if you could light a fire under Legal and have them give me a call when they're ready. I'll sit here for a while and call El."

Finally alone, he allowed himself to relax gingerly in the chair and savor victory before pulling out his phone. "El, we did it!" Her squeal of delight echoed the joy in his own heart. "I'm bringing him home today."


	7. Chapter 7

This is the final chapter, and finally we get Neal and Peter together. I can't believe I've kept them apart for this long, since it's the interactions between them that make the show such fun. Thanks for sticking with the story, and thanks to everybody who commented and made me feel so welcome in this new fandom. I will certainly be writing more White Collar, although I have to go back and finish a Supernatural story I left in the middle of the final chapter to write this. It will probably be a while since I don't post until I've finished a story, and I write at a snail's pace.

Thanks again to Susan for her wonderful betaing, for sorting out my pronouns and commas.

Here's to July 13th!

Chapter 7

Warden Haskley hadn't impressed Peter the last time they'd met. He didn't suppose his own attitude had endeared him to the man either, nor was the warden a member of Neal's fan club, having been professionally and personally embarrassed by the conman's escape. So he wasn't surprised by Haskley's uncooperative attitude. He stopped short of actively stonewalling, but he was perusing the paperwork with unnecessary thoroughness.

"You guys just don't know what you want to do with Caffrey, do you? He's a damned jack-in-the-box, in one minute and out the next."

"Well, you won't be seeing him again." Peter was going to make sure of that. "As you can see, the papers are all in order, so if one of your guards could take me to see Caffrey now."

"I'll have Bobby take you. Caffrey's in isolation."

Now he had Peter's undivided attention. "Isolation, why? I thought all the cells here were singles anyway."

"It's for his own protection," the warden assured him. "Someone tried to stick a shiv in him a couple of days ago. I think they objected to his new-found status as the FBI go-to guy. The Bureau doesn't have many friends here. Lucky for him he's such a slippery bastard."

Blood seemed to drain from Peter as if from a slashed artery, leaving him nauseous and shaky. Neal could have been killed while Peter was lying uselessly in a hospital bed. "Was he hurt?" he asked hoarsely.

"A few stitches, nothing serious," Haskley replied casually.

Peter felt an intense desire to plant a fist in the middle of that smug face. It wasn't so much his long experience dealing with aggravating assholes that stopped him, but rather the fear that he would collapse in a messy heap on the floor before he'd reached the other side of the desk. "I want to see him _now_," he growled.

The guard who guided him down the cell blocks was portly, but seemed to have retained his humanity, a rarity in this business. "So you're here to take Neal out? That's good. You know," he looked around slightly furtively, "I asked the warden to put him on suicide watch, but he refused."

"You think Neal's suicidal?" Peter was alarmed, but unconvinced.

Bobby shrugged. "I don't know. It's not like I'm an expert or anything. It's just like, for one thing, he's hardly eaten since he's been here."

Peter made a mental note of that, but on reflection, he wasn't surprised. Neal's refined palate would find little to please it in prison food. However, he'd survived nearly four years before, so he must have adjusted.

The guard continued, "But it's not just that. He's been...quiet."

Now there Peter would agree. A quiet Neal was unnatural. He appreciated the guard's concern for his friend and confided, "He shouldn't have been sent back here. He's not done anything wrong."

They passed through many locked doors and a legion of jeering inmates - Peter's clothing betrayed his profession - and ultimately through the infirmary. At the end of a long corridor, at a fair distance from the general population, were two cells. Bobby unlocked the first one. "Go ahead. I'll wait for you here."

Peter pushed the door open with some trepidation, suddenly worried about how the ordeal would have affected his friend. The cell, lit by one bare light bulb, was slightly larger than the previous one Neal had occupied, with an almost identical bed, sink and toilet. However, its size merely intensified the feeling of bleakness, since it contained not a single personal item - the walls cold and barren. But Peter only noted these things subconsciously as his eyes were totally focused on the sole occupant of the room.

Neal was sitting on the side of the bed, leaning against the wall with his knees tucked up against his chest. He seemed to glance up as Peter entered but, with a pained groan, slumped forward with his arms hugging his legs. Peter approached him uncertainly, unsure if he was being ignored or if Neal hadn't really registered his presence. He stopped when he reached the bed, then sat down awkwardly, one leg half tucked underneath him so he was still facing his friend.

"Neal?" he said gently, reaching out to touch his friend's shoulder.

The effect was immediate; Neal's head shot up. It would almost have been funny if it weren't for the shockingly vulnerable look in his wide eyes.

"Peter?" There had always been something unique in the way Neal pronounced his name, but now it was said with a wondering disbelief, as if a miracle had been performed or the Mona Lisa had stepped out of her painting to shake his hand. He uncurled, shifting his weight forward onto his knees and extending an arm almost as if he expected it to meet no resistance. As his knuckles brushed Peter's shirt, he took in a sharp inhale of breath. "You're not...I thought...you're not dead!"

As if released from too heavy a burden, he slipped forward until his forehead was resting against Peter's chest. No one had told him! As the horror of that revelation struck, Peter automatically brought up both arms to enclose the younger man. In the intensity of his focus to get Neal released, it had never occurred to him that no one had informed the conman of his survival. Fine sharp tremors shuddered through Neal's body and the blades of his shoulders felt too pronounced beneath the orange cotton of his jumpsuit. Peter felt a wave of protectiveness that nearly choked him, but he said nothing, allowing them both the needed moment of privacy to reconnect.

Neal pulled away first, shuffling back to the wall, and Peter joined him in an identical position. He needed the support behind him and, with Neal's warmth against his shoulder, their knees bumping together companionably, he felt like he could relax for the first time since waking up in the hospital. He shut his eyes, in no hurry to move.

"So," Neal began, his conversational tone marred by a slight waver. "Not dead."

"Not dead," Peter confirmed, then, after a pause significant enough to make it count, "Thanks to you."

"Yeah?" Neal's voice was young and hesitant. Peter said nothing more, so after a moment, the conman continued, "I thought it must have been too late, you know, or that I was wrong and they hadn't found you."

"I just assumed you'd been told. I'm sorry." Peter was about to continue his explanation, but Neal's hand trailed down his arm, fingers catching, then tugging on the plastic hospital bracelet that the agent had forgotten was still attached around his wrist.

"S'okay. I can see you were otherwise engaged." Penetrating blue eyes examined him closely. "You look like you should still be in the hospital."

"Really, I'm fine," Peter reassured him.

Neal played nervously with the bracelet. "They wanted to question you about the money."

Peter understood what he was asking. "Yeah, well, when they shot me, they really shot themselves in the foot. It was poetic justice really. Every time they tried to question me, I fell asleep." Peter decided he liked that line. It was worth trying on El, since it sounded so much better than 'passed out'. He'd probably get the same mild skepticism mixed with hope from her that he was receiving from his friend now. "Seriously, I'm okay. But I wouldn't be if you hadn't figured it all out so fast, so...thanks."

He felt Neal relax slightly beside him and teased, "Now I've shown you mine, you show me yours."

"Peter!" the conman returned in a scandalised tone, but the FBI agent counted it as a win, since it was first fragment of a smile he'd seen.

"The warden said someone had taken exception to your new career choice, and you needed a few stitches."

"Yeah." Neal reverted to monosyllabacy, not a good sign.

"Well, is that a few like you've committed a few felonies, or a few as in you've only been convicted of a few?"

This time, Peter received a fully fledged grin. "Are you really fishing for information, Peter?"

"Only about your injuries, so give," the older man insisted.

"18 stitches," Neal stated succinctly, his eyes dropping to his hands.

Peter swallowed back the acid in his throat. A sideways glance showed him the remnants of yellow bruising, a sickly patchwork on Neal's face. Normally, he wouldn't criticise the Bureau in front of Neal, believing it set a bad example of disparaging law and order, but this time, the conman deserved to hear it. "This was screwed up from the very beginning, and you've borne the brunt of it. I'm sorry."

He could feel renewed tension in the shoulder touching his. "Neal?" he queried, unsure as to the cause of this anxiety.

His friend turned toward him. His face was controlled, but he was unable to shutter the windows to his soul, and the bone-deep fear and fragility evident in the hollowness of those blue eyes caused Peter's chest to compress painfully.

"Are you here...is this some kind of weird equivalent of a conjugal visit...or are you..."

Understanding hit Peter with the impact of a freight train, and he knew he'd screwed up again. "Oh, God, Neal! I'm not just here to commiserate. No, you're getting out of here today."

Neal sagged bonelessly beside him, and Peter tried to figure out the misunderstanding, although everything he wanted to say seemed to have dried up and stuck together then lodged somewhere between his heart and mouth. "You didn't do anything wrong. You shouldn't even be here."

Neal was still pale, even the blue of his eyes seemed chalky. He swallowed hard several times before speaking, the lump in his throat working. "You told me once that if I ran again, I'd be in here for good, remember? Seaton told me the same thing."

Yet, with that sword of Damocles hanging above him, Neal had cut the thread, offering up his own neck. It was an astonishing act of courage and sacrifice, and Peter had no words to do it justice. "Exigent circumstances," he managed to mumble. He did have one promise of his own to offer. "I'm not going to let you do something stupid enough to end up back here." Deciding to lighten the tone, he added, "Besides, if I didn't get you out of here, Mozz would probably break you out."

Neal looked at him with interest, joining the game. "How do you think he'd manage that?"

"A tunnel," Peter decided. "Definitely a tunnel."

"Ah, the greatest cake."

Peter winced. "That's a terrible pun. You know, Mozz does look almost exactly like that guy in the movie?"

"Which one?"

"The one that looks like Mozz," Peter clarified unhelpfully.

"Oh, that one." The younger man nodded his head sagely.

"The one who went blind from forging all the documents. Come to think of it, he's an absolute Mozz prototype. He could be his twin... or his father."

"Didn't he get shot?" Neal mused.

"I think you're right. You'd better warn him."

Silence fell. Peter felt almost punch drunk with exhaustion and was disinclined to move, but after a while, he continued to talk. "If he didn't get you out, El probably would."

"I don't think there were any women in the Great Escape," Neal offered thoughtfully.

"She'd be the Richard Attenborough character, the brains of the outfit. Did I tell you she's got Hughes scared of her? When he told her you'd been arrested, she tore a strip off him."

"That's my girl," Neal said fondly.

"No, that's my girl," Peter reminding him mildly, tapping himself on the chest.

A small apologetic cough came from outside the door. The two friends glanced at each other and exchanged slightly embarrassed smiles.

Neal stretched his legs out with a groan. "As much as I love what they've done with this place, I could really do with a change of scenery."

"Yeah," Peter agreed. "I want to get you checked out at a hospital.'' He missed the flicker of dismay that crossed the conman's face.

"I'm not the one who needs to see the inside of a hospital, I'm fine." Neal tried not to sound too anxious.

"No, you're not, you're hot."

Neal smirked, but there was a smidgeon of worry behind it, because the FBI agent must be operating below par to set himself up for that one. "Why, Peter, thank you for noticing. I thought you were immune to my charm."

"Oh, shut up, you're running a temperature, and I want a doctor to see you."

"Not tonight," Neal pleaded, hating the thought of being stuck in another institution. "If I'm still running a fever tomorrow, I promise to go with you. I just need a night without being prodded or observed."

Peter looked at him in concern. "Is there something you're not telling me? Did anything happen I should know about?"

"No, I just need..." ...to have some control. Peter could hear the unspoken words.

"Alright, but you're coming home with me tonight. El's made up the spare room, and I know she's cooking some of that fancy stuff you like. Actually," he continued a little awkwardly, "El would love it if you stayed with us for a while, keep me company while I'm under draconian medical restrictions. Any way, mi casa es su casa, and I'd like to think I'm a better host than I was a guest."

Neal didn't want to show just how much the thought of the companionship and security of that household appealed to him, so he accepted nonchalantly. "Sure, I can be your unpaid nursemaid as well as your virtually unpaid consultant."

Another thought occurred to him, and he quickly changed the subject. "Did they find out who falsified the data on my tracker?"

Peter shook his head with a frown.

"Do you think it was Fowler?" Neal pressed.

"Possibly. It certainly appears to be an inside job, but what OPR's connection with the Giordano family is I have no idea. The tampering proved to be untraceable, but I think it's quite probable that Fowler wants to see you in jail, figuring you'd be more likely to make a deal under those circumstances."

"Have you noticed that the anklet seems to be more useful in framing me for crimes I didn't commit than in stopping me from committing them?"

Peter matched the conman's wry expression. "Well, another advantage of you staying with me is you wouldn't have to put that damn tracker on. We could just stick it in a drawer until you leave."

Neal could hear the subscript. Peter was saying he trusted him, that the tracker was purely a formality demanded by the Bureau. He wondered if Peter knew that that trust was a far stronger deterrent to him running than the anklet ever was. Probably, but considering the agent's career was at stake on the matter, it was still a considerable act of faith, and Neal didn't fight the surge of warmth around his heart.

Favouring his injured side, Neal climbed carefully off the bed, then stood looking at Peter, who hadn't moved. "Can you walk? Because I think they might frown at me carrying you out."

"If I can stand, I can walk," Peter stated confidently.

Neal waited, but there was no corresponding movement from the bed. "And can you stand?" he prompted.

"That's debatable," Peter confessed. He pushed himself forward slightly, but he couldn't prevent the gasp that escaped as the movement sent pain rolling through his chest, hot and molten. His legs felt as if they had mutated from flesh and bone to rubber.

As he took small, shallow gasps, Peter felt a warm hand grip his shoulder, mirroring the concern on Neal's face as he bent over him. "Peter? Listen, I'm taking _you_ to the hospital."

"I'll be fine. I've just overdone it a bit today, what with the hearing this morning and everything. Help me up."

Neal hauled him upright as carefully as he could, then grabbed him in what was effectively an embrace to stop him from keeling back over. "What hearing?" he asked, more as a distraction than from any real interest.

Peter steadied himself against his friend, finding his balance and digging for any residual strength that might be cowering in hidden crevices of his muscles. "Your hearing, Einstein. You'll be happy to know you were reinstated by a unanimous vote."

Neal was impressed; somehow he didn't think it was that easy. "Who did you have to threaten to make that happen?"

Keeping one hand on his friend, Peter started to shuffle to the door, concentrating on breathing steadily to release the tight band around his chest before giving a sly grin and an honest answer. "Only Seaton, and the bastard deserved it."

"Peter, I didn't know you had it in you," Neal said admiringly.

"Well, I had to get you out. Who else could I trust with my back."

The validation in that simple sentence contained an acceptance that Neal had searched for his entire life, and he let the words sink deep into his soul, knowing they would sustain him in more difficult times.

They limped slowly back along the corridors, but their heads were held high. And when Neal finally exited the prison that he had feared he would never leave, it was with the unaccustomed but welcome sensation of having a partner and friend at his side and a sense of pride and belonging in his heart.

The End


End file.
